


Web Whipped

by snackbaskets



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Trans Peter Parker, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, as always babey, starts with mostly humor and gets more poetically homoerotic with time, tenderly patching up your totally platonic bros injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snackbaskets/pseuds/snackbaskets
Summary: Wade's not whipped. He's never been whipped for a man in his life, especially not Peter Parker. (This is a lie.)Peter knows Wade's whipped. He knows, because he's very good at noticing the obvious, and he would know if the man he loves loved him back. (This is also a lie.)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spider-Man/Deadpool, two dipshits/ pining
Comments: 28
Kudos: 267





	Web Whipped

**Author's Note:**

> ITS BEEN A WHILE BABES!!!!! got hit with the spideypool bug and had 2 jump in and share my 2 gay cents, u know how it is,
> 
> anywhos, its 4:20 am (haha just like the weed number. the number for weed) im boutta pass tf out, and i am back on my bullshit now that finals r over lets go

“So Spidey, what are your thoughts on slime molds?”

“Slime molds? Oh, I love those.”

Peter swung around and snagged Wade by the scruff before he could be completely cut in half, though he was a little too late to save the chunk of ‘Pool meat that this week’s evil robot managed to cleave off him. 

“You-- ow, motherfuck-- you _what_ now? I heard about those, like, last week! They can think, Bugaboo, and that’s just messed up. Slimes shouldn’t think! They should be slimes!”

“I’m not a bug. We’ve been over this.”

“The only time I want my slime thinking and problem-solving is when it’s got tentacles, and then all I want it to know is the concept of consent. But that’s it! I draw a hard line at slime sentience there!”

“Weird line, but okay. Now isn’t exactly the time for your fetishes, though, DP. Robots?”

Wade stiffened up into a military dive as Peter dropped him back into the fray, boots punching through the metal chassis of a bot as he twisted to behead the next. 

“It’s always a good time for fetishes with you, baby boy.” There was a wink thrown in there somewhere, but Peter missed it amid all the oil and coolant spraying around. “Also, I’m great at multitasking. That’s why I’m so cool and badass, and can use _two_ swords.”

“Uh-huh.” Another web, another robot stuck to a wall, another bruise on his poor knuckles from punching a bunch of metal plating. “Tell that to your kidney.”

“My kidney? What about my-- oop! Where’d that little rascal get off to this time? He’s a wily one, you know.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Wade snagged a robot by one of its leg-arm-appendages and swung it, pitching it like a discus over to Peter in an impressive display of strength for a man with one kidney. Peter leapt up and caught it in the head with his foot, popping the circuitry clean off in a shower of sparks and smelly machinery-fluids. Man, that was never coming out of the spandex. The action twisted his waist and he had to bite back a hiss, feeling the line of last night’s stitches pop open like a ziploc bag full of pudding. Not pleasant. 

“Did you know slime molds can learn, Spidey? They can learn shit, and then you can cut them in half, and stick them onto a mold who doesn’t know shit, and then both molds will know said shit!”

“Evolution really outdid herself there, yeah.”

“Evolution is a twisted bitch, and I’ll stand by that until I die.”

A robot came down on Peter’s head, and it was only by virtue of his spidey-sense that he didn’t get lasered, or buzz-sawed, or punched a lot, or whatever these guys were supposed to do. They mostly seemed to be into the poke-things-with-my-scary-arms school of combat, which was probably why Wade was getting along with them so well. Because, you know, Wolverine? Pointy arms? The, the whole… adamantium… hands… thing? Ooh, he was doing a whole lot of oozing right about now.

“You’re doing a whole lot of oozing there, Spidey. You doing alright?”

“I’ll admit, I’ve been better. I got this, though. I’m just gonna need at least six hot dogs when this is over.”

Peter swung his fist into another robot and staggered a little as he shook its warped metal shell off his fist. Oof. Okay, maybe he didn’t got this. Normally, he would, but he was up all last night getting cut open, and most of the nights before that he was working on his thesis for Dr. Seboyan, and then his first batch of cell cultures dicked out on him, and then he cried into some ice cream until work, where Jameson proceeded to yell at him a bunch about nothing in particular, which would usually be fine if not for the slamming ice-cream-crying-passing-out-face-down-on-the-floor headache he was nursing that day, so he was maybe, perhaps, sort of off his game. Just a little. He _could_ say something to Wade, but then it would ruin the nice banter they had going on. Then again, Peter wasn’t super present in said banter, due to the seven inch stripe of owfuck currently throwing tacks around his belly. He could do it, though. He’d done crazier. God knows he’d done crazier with Wade. Maybe they should’ve called Matt; Matt makes it so that there’s at least one voice of reason between the three of them, like, at least 30% of the time, which would have probably prevented Peter from doing something as stupid as punching killer robots with the bleeder that, like the heel of Achillies, was royally fucking him up. 

A robot got in a lucky strike on his side, and Peter couldn’t help the mouthful of spit and bile that hit the back of his teeth in response. He lifted his mask and spat out some concerningly red-looking goo on the ground and decided maybe fuck this. Yeah, no. Time to call in the big guns.

“Keep me updated here, Spidey, you’re making some noises over there that would usually be sexy, but all the flopping is turning me on a little less than usual, so--”

“Wade,” he managed, and it was as far as he needed to get.

-

“Wade,” Peter coughed, and Deadpool saw red.

The inside of Wade’s head went blank, from splatters of thought and color (and chatter, because boxes never shut up) to the smooth, grey surface of concrete, pulsing hot-cold instinct through his veins that made for a gut punch of muscle memory as his body went lax, flowing like liquid from one motion to the other, cleaving apart flimsy robot bodies like a mower through grass. He stopped worrying about himself (Petey hated when he did that, but boo-hoo, only one guy here had a healing factor as souped-up as Logan’s) and ignored the pounds of flesh that fell from his body as he ripped, tore, flayed every piece of metal and wire he could get his hands on and his swords into with the fury of a badger on cocaine. Wade stopped talking and Peter stopped trying to talk back, and without their voices, the battlefield became ten times louder than before; every beat of silence filled itself instead with the howl and chug of twisting machinery where it would have become background noise, and the only sound that Deadpool (he was Deadpool now, the killer, the mercenary, the maker of widows and the fuck-upper of shit) cared to hear was the labored breathing of Peter beside him, violent and determined and beginning to sound a little too wet. There was a concerning pool of red at his feet, dripping between the fingers he had pressed to his stomach and oozing a crimson line up the underside of his ribs. Still, like the superhero he was, Spidey kept on literally and figuratively kicking, and the fondness that managed to worm around Wade’s serious-brain made his heart flutter.

But now was not the time for gay thoughts. Now was the time for murder. 

He hurled around robots until he’d lost count of them, eventually coming to stand at Spidey’s back and taking some reassurance in the warmth of his weight against his spine, alive and tense and reeking of sweat and engine grease. By the time they were down to single digits, Peter was leaning against him more than he was standing, breath coming in heavy pants that made the front of his mask puff out in a way that would have been comical if Wade weren’t completely in massacre-mode. As soon as the last machine fell, Spidey sagged against him, limply allowing Wade to toss his arm over his shoulder and wrap his hand around Peter’s uninjured side. Even through his glove, Wade could feel the warm wetness of blood soaked into the suit, and he grit his teeth. 

“I got a safehouse a couple blocks down,” he offered. “It might have some old pizzas on the floor, but I swear my med kit is sterile (because the med kits at his apartments were for Peter, and he may not be able to do much, but Petey would always have the best Wade could offer). I swear, if you try to swing your webby ass off now, I might just strangle you, and it won’t be sexy.”

“Oh, the horror. Making you strangle someone in a not sexy way, how dare I.”

“Exactly! So let’s get a move on, bug boy, before you goosh something important all over the sidewalk.” Wade moved to half-march half-drag Peter along, but he resisted, shaking his head.

“It’s not that bad. I just… need to put it back together, and I’ll be fine. I’m just… running on empty.” Peter lolled his head back and weakly rolled up the bottom of his mask, taking a few deep breaths that shook on the exhale. His lips here stark red against the pale of his skin, and Wade tried to ignore the way the blood that dripped down his chin made his mouth look like paradise, and he understood why the red of an apple was worth being forever cast from Eden. 

“Yeah, so let’s get a groove on, Frankenstein.”

Spidey shook his head again.

“No, no, listen. Don’t be weird about this, okay?”

“I’m never weird about anything,” Wade lied, the hand not holding Peter up by the waist pressed over the wound on his middle. He couldn’t feel Peter’s heartbeat in earnest, but he could feel it in every fresh pulse of blood that pushed against his palm, and the sick part of his brain (which was to say, his brain in general) wanted to tear the suit open, dig his fingers into the cut, and push his hand in deep; to feel Peter’s ribs against his skin, run his fingers over his heaving lungs and hold his heart in his chest, every beat pressing up between his fingers like a water balloon about to burst.

“My apartment is, like, the next street over. It’s way closer, and I have protein shakes there.”

“Okay. I will not surveil you in your way in to find your address, which I will not know within the next two hours because that is wrong.”

“I’m inviting you in, Wade. I can’t exactly climb up my fire escape like this. I mean, I could, but it would super, super suck.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yup. Let’s go.”

As they began to limp onward, Peter gave him an odd look.

“And you’re not gonna freak out or be weird about this? I mean, I told you not to be weird about it, but that’s kind of your thing, so I expected you to be a little weirder about me showing you where I live.”

It hadn’t really set in yet. Wade was still in the ‘whazzafuck’ stage, and hadn’t quite gotten to overwhelming homoerotic euphoria. But he’d get there. 

“Well, I mean. You know who I am, and you know what I look like, so of course you know where I live. That’s why you’re not weird, duh. I’m the one making it weird.”

“I don’t know where you live,” Wade blurted.

“Dude, you don’t have to lie. I’m fine with you knowing that sort of thing. If it bothered me, you wouldn’t have seen my face.”

“I don’t, though. Honest.” It was important he knew. That Peter knew. He needed to. “I never looked for you. Not after you told me your name. Or showed me your face. You or DD.”

“But it’s your job to look for people.”

“You’re not a job.” Never. Never ever ever, not in a million years. His huge heartboner for Spidey aside, Red Team sticks together. 

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“It’s small. My apartment, I mean.”

It could be a damp shack in the middle of nowhere, and Wade would want to be there. He’d set up shop in a camel’s ass if it meant Peter drinking coffee there in the mornings. Peter getting out of bed. Peter singing 80’s pop in the shower. Peter Peter Peter. 

Oh, shit, he said something, deflect deflect deflect.

“Shoot. I thought we were talking about naughty bits.”

“Wh--why would I be telling you my dick is small?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you like to share. Maybe you’re telling me so I don’t get my hopes up. They’re already up, by the way. My hopes. Nothing else.” 

He winked.

“Wade, you’ve seen me naked. We’ve been patching each other up for years. We’ve gone to a hot spring together. Matt was there.”

“We aren’t talking about Matty’s junk, we’re talking about yours. Besides, you have nothing to feel bad about. The meat might be small, but the energy? Massive.”

“Thanks? Wait, why are we talking about my junk, again?”

Peter shot a web at the fire escape ladder, and Wade swung him over his shoulder to start the trek up.

“You brought it up.”

Peter carefully disabled a bunch of wires holding the eighth floor window closed, and pushed it open, sort of spilling himself through and onto a piece of bloodstained cardboard that was taped below the sill. Clever. Wade followed, a little clumsier, and hefted him back up.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, turn right.”

He moved on autopilot, following Peter’s sluggish footsteps and trying not to be too obvious about the fact he was imprinting every inch of the space to memory, from the dishes stacked in the drying rack to the sticky notes on the fridge, to the breadbox left open and empty with a spiderweb to fill it instead. There were coffee stains and blood stains and stains of unknown origin all over the table in front of the TV, and before the kitchen stood an island that may have at one point been nice, but the light fixture above it had been clumsily patched out and the faux marble counters were peeling and the whole thing looked like shit, and Wade nearly cried because it was the best thing he’d ever seen. 

“Urnghk,” Peter said, and Wade came back to reality enough to start digging under the sink as soon as Peter hefted himself up onto the counter. The mirror was cracked in the upper right corner, and one of the lights above the sink was out.

“It’ll be faster for me to cut up the suit,” Wade warned, and Peter made an (even more) pained face, but nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, it was ruined anyway.”

He started with the legs, peeling Pete out of the wet and filthy material as quick as he could (which was pretty quick, as he’d had practice popping vigilantes out of their shitty spandex getups) and very valiantly ignoring the urge to lick the filth off his skin, because that would be gross, impolite, and not very cash money of him. 

As he cut up the body of the suit, fresh blood started to pulse out from beneath it, soaking the already-filthy towel Peter had sat on, the compression bindings of the suit’s chest having done at least a little to apply pressure to the wound where it scooped up the underside of his breast. Wade threaded his needle at the same time Peter put a hand towel between his teeth, clumsily smearing an alcohol wipe over the site while Wade peeled off his gloves and scrubbed the nasty from under his fingernails. 

When he was finished, he looked up, and there was Peter Parker, bleeding and beautiful, stripped down to nothing but his skin with his head leaned back against the mirror and the one working light casting shadows below his eyelashes, looking every bit like the paintings of angels that used to scare Wade as a kid, and he could see where Matt was coming from with the whole loving a religion thing. 

“I’m gonna start stitching,” he warned, and somehow managed to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Go for it,” Peter replied.

See, being around Peter was easy (it wasn’t). Being invited into Peter’s home, his sanctuary, the last bastion of privacy and personhood he hadn’t yet shared, that was easy too (it wasn’t, holy shit, holy fucking shit, it wasn’t). Peter could tell him, to his face, that he loved Wade the same as Wade loved him, and it would still be easier than touching Peter’s skin with his own (not that he’d ever say it).

He started at the bottom of the cut, where it scooped across Peter’s belly, carefully knitting together the skin with all the precision of those crazy expensive microscopes Peter drooled over every time he saw them and that Wade had to wrestle not to buy, because Peter wouldn’t take charity like that, the stubborn ass. Like everything else about him, the effect of Peter’s touch was nothing short of a miracle: Wade’s fingertips ached, they throbbed, they itched and twisted and writhed every day of his life and every day of his unlife, but when they brushed Peter’s skin, all he felt was warmth. Warm, like molten silver racing up his nerves and lighting up his brain with the same kind of high as the ones he got as a teenager smoking the devil’s lettuce for the first time. It made the burn fade, turned it into the sort of exhausted looseness that would settle in his muscles after a good workout, back when he was still a human man, the kind that left him feeling accomplished and fulfilled, setting his heart and his body and his mind all at ease in a way nothing else could, not since he became the creature he was now. He moved up the cut to the place it crept over the crest of his ribs, and Peter sucked in a breath that somehow caused Wade’s head to be the one to spin. It was only by virtue of practice and determination that his hands didn’t shake as he crept higher, bloody fingers holding fast and steady where they gently laid over the skin below, coursing firebrands up his arms and into every fiber and sinew in his body, because this was _Peter_ , and Wade would do the impossible for him. 

To get to where the cut had swept up Peter’s chest, he had to press his hand to the underside of his breast, fingers wrapping around the side of his ribcage and thumb gently pressing against the tissue that had atrophied from years on testosterone, and he could feel Peter’s feathering heartbeat against the pad of his thumb, the inhale and exhale of air as it filled his lungs and pushed his ribs out, pressed him impossibly closer to Wade’s palm, so close he could feel the little irregularities of old scars and the occasional mole against his skin; perfect, and radiant, and everything he’d ever want again, so much so he had to choke back the tears that threatened his throat.

“Almost done,” he rasped, and moved his hand higher, to the nail in his coffin, to the smooth skin just to the left of Peter’s sternum, hand scooped more around the front of his ribs so he was almost cupping one side of Peter’s chest, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the shadow of ribs beneath the skin, blanketed in powerful, wiry muscle that rose and fell with every breath he took, and as Wade fastened the last stitch, he stole a glance up at Peter’s face to see him staring right back, head still tipped against the mirror and face red with exertion and sweat caught on his lashes, still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and Wade swallowed.

“Gotcha,” he said, softer than he’d intended.

“Thanks,” Peter replied, just as quiet, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence between them, eyes locked in a battle not of will, but of something even more powerful, one of Wade’s hands laid haphazardly over Peter’s bare thigh, and the other still holding his breast, feeling a slow bead of blood against the tip of his thumb that he absently brushed away, glancing down at his hand and the way Peter’s pulse fluttered in his jugular, and he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Welp, I gotta run. Fun fight today, Spidey!” he blurted, and scrambled for the door (window, rather), ignoring the cacophony in his head that howled _coward, coward_ like a litany of his sins, of every mistake he’d made rolled up into this moment when he ran away from the one place he’d like to be buried, nested in the space of Peter’s chest, woven into the fibers of the thread that now held him together, made a part of the scar that would lay a pink stem over his body to which his very essence was the bloom, perfect and beautiful and too fucking good to be tainted by the pollutant of a creature like him. 

Wade ran, and wished he’d been a little more like Spiderman. 

-

Peter scrubbed himself down and set his alarm and fell into bed still feeling the phantom touch of Wade’s skin on his, and he wished he weren’t so cursed with Parker luck, that he didn’t ache so badly for one of the best friends he’d ever had, and he sighed. He’d just have to content himself with the memory of it, the safety and the kindness that Wade’s hands painted over him, the soft drag of his calloused, scarred fingers that were capable of atrocities but only ever made Peter feel like something sacred, something worshipped, as if he would ever be worthy of being loved by a tempest like Wade Wilson. Peter slept, and he wished.

**Author's Note:**

> yes i wrote the majority of this fic with peter having his whole pussy out. no i will not take criticism
> 
> also as always feel free 2 let me know if something reads weird !! im rusty so this little guy might be paced funny, so sorry about that one chiefs


End file.
